Blood is Thicker than Water
by IntoTheGrey
Summary: Evil isn't made, it's born. More happened that night in 1978 than the murders. Michelle is her own breed of psychotic, and she's found her way back home. The apple really doesn't fall far from the tree.
1. Prologue

_**Please read all authors notes, and disclaimers as they will include important information about the contents of the chapter, trigger warnings and important plot points.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Halloween or any of it's characters or components. They are currently property of Blumhouse Studios. Michael Myers, Laurie Strode and any other recognizable character were created by John Carpenter and Debra Hill… or the writers from Blumhouse. Michelle Myers as she is portrayed in this story has been my own original character for nearly twenty years. I will not give permission for anyone else to use her, and any unauthorized use will be dealt with. Please be considerate, I created her a long time ago, she is my fucked up babygirl and I am very protective of her.**_

 _ **In 2014, I began posting this story titled Halloween: Blood is Thicker than Water. As my writing style and ideas have changed drastically in this time, I decided it would simply be easier to rewrite the entire damn thing. I can't count the number of times I've rewritten this, but I think I have finally worked out all of the kinks. The response for BiTtW was overwhelming, and I thank all of you so much for the time you took to write reviews, send me PM's and most of all… read the story. You're all so awesome, and I sincerely hope that I can make you just as happy with this newest iteration of Michelle and Michael.**_

 _ **The release of the 2018 retconning sequel has finally shaken loose all of the cobwebs, and forced me out of self-imposed hiatus. But, also thanks to that, I've decided to fuck with the timeline to an extreme. As much as I loved 2018, the one thing that bothered me was the removal of the familial aspect between Michael and Laurie. For me, that's always upped the intensity of the story. The fact that Michael waited and waited for fifteen years to go after his sister is infinitely more terrifying than him just deciding to escape one day and slaughter a bunch of babysitters. So for the sake of this fic, Halloween (1978) and Halloween II (1981) will remain in tact. I'm choosing to disregard H20, and Resurrection, and will be incorporating elements of 2018, into this story. Which will be taking place in place of Resurrection in the year 2002.**_

 _ **If you followed that, A+, if not… I'll try to clarify as I write.**_

October 31st, 2001

Stafford Manor

London, England

Michelle Stafford, heiress to the Stafford Steel Mill, stood next to the french doors of her third floor bedroom balcony. Tonight was her twenty-third birthday, but rather than celebrating, she stared out into the darkness of her parents estate, a bottle of Irish whiskey clutched in her blood stained hands. Her black tipped nails drummed against the glass in a soothing rhythm. The police had just left, and her actions that night were slowly sinking in as she thought back over the course of her birthday evening.

She'd come home at the insistence of her mother. The vile woman wanted Michelle home from Uni so she could throw an extravagant party for her 'baby girl' and try to make herself look like a decent human being. It was a farce, of course… Emmalie couldn't have cared less about her daughter, if she'd ever have even tried to begin with.

For as far back as Michelle could remember, her parents hadn't been much of her life. Her earliest memories always involved her ever rotating staff of nannies and governesses. She couldn't even recall a conversation with her mother before she was eleven. Em had decided that it was her job to explain to the scared, young girl, what was happening to her body. It hadn't been a pleasant conversation, and had been the thing to plant the festering seed of hate for her parents in Michelle's heart.

Her father wasn't any better. If she thought hard enough, she might be able to recall a handful of times her father even spoke to her. And most of those moments were more him screaming at her than anything else. She'd fled as soon as she turned 18. Their existence and hatred of her no longer hurt, instead it triggered a response that scared the fuck out of her. She wanted to kill them. She wanted to dig her manicured black nails into their eyes and push until their gray matter oozed out. She wanted to slit their throats, to tear out their windpipes and vocal chords.

Michelle simply wanted them dead, and only at her hands.

That's how she had gotten here tonight. Oh, she'd come home, all happy and excited to spend the weekend with her parents. At least, that's what everyone at school had been lead to believe. There would be a grand party, and the next day she would go shopping with her mother in London. Oh she couldn't wait.

Of course, that wasn't the case at all. Michelle only had one thing on her mind when she arrived home that Friday morning. It had been exceedingly easy, in hindsight, and made the woman wonder why she'd waited so long.

The servants had all been out, gathering supplies and tending to the grounds for the party. Michelle went for her father first, he'd been in his study, a room Michelle had always been expressly forbade from entering, but she'd invited herself in that afternoon.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing in here, girl?" He'd snapped at her, having looked up when the sounds of her heavily booted footfalls crossed his threshold. Michelle had ignored him for the time being, instead choosing to examine the brown, wood paneled walls that were covered in cheap reproductions of classic art. He always did so love showing guests his 'authentic' pieces. So many 'first edition' books were lined up on the shelves… the sad truth was that most of them were just covered glued on to wooden blocks. The room stank of cigars and scotch, along with the overwhelming stench of a slimy human being. Her father had always carried the slightest smell of perpetual body odour, owing to his wide, fat frame.

Harold Stafford had always been a squat, fat man. His nose was too wide for his face, and tipped with a bulbous shape… the perpetual red shade of it had always conjured the image of radishes in Michelle's mind. His eyes were small, almost pinpoints in his large face. And for the entirety of Michelle's life there was never a single strand of hair on his head, but his eyebrows were threatening to overtake his entire face.

Her mother was much the same. Short and plump in a rather unpleasant way. Emmalie carried all of her weight right in her gut. She had short, thin brown hair that she always kept tucked under a kerchief. She wore too much makeup, to try to enhance the features she didn't have. If plain had a face, it would be Em Stafford.

Michelle was the polar opposite of her parents. She stood five foot ten, and was very lean. Her hips and bust tapered into a thin waist. Where her parents were ruddy and olive skinned from their supposed Italian ancestry, Michelle was very fair, pale even, her mother often compared her to sketch paper. That tease was only intensified as Michelle began filling in her pale skin with tattoos. All dark imagery and symbolism that served the dual purpose of self-expression and thoroughly pissing her parents right off.

Where as her father had no hair, and her mother the equivalent of a thin birds nest, Michelle had a head full of thick, blue-black locks. It fell down to the small of her back like a midnight waterfall. The most defining difference between the young woman, and her parents was her eyes. Harold sported the most underwhelming shade of blue, while her mothers were a babyshit green shade. Michelle's eyes… were black. No, not a dark gray or deep blue. They were entirely black. Her eye doctor had made quite a big deal about it… stating that he had never seen anything like it.

After a thorough examination of the unremarkable room, Michelle slowly turned to her father, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

"I asked you a question, Michelle!" He snapped, beginning to struggle to get out of his armchair. She didn't respond, there would be no more wasted words on him. She bent down, extracting a long knife out of her boot, she turned it over in her hands, admiring it for a few moments, before raising her eyes to him with a dark smirk.

Harold went pale, fighting more against his own weight to stand up. His mouth opened to scream, but Michelle was on him, slapping her palm over his lips to stifle any sound.

Those black eyes stayed fixed on his, as the blade drew across his throat, she savored the sound of his death gurgles, with glee shining in her eyes. Keeping him down was so easy, not that the fat fuck could move much to begin with, but Michelle had always possessed a sort of wiry strength that was completely disproportionate to her frame. He bled out slowly, but she loved every second of it, until the lights went out in him.

Michelle continued down the hall, smiling at the works she'd already done on her mother. The woman was beyond drunk, and had no issue accepting the pills that her daughter handed to her. Michelle always had the best drugs… it was the one thing the two of them ever got on over.

"Oh you'll be flying, mummy." Michelle said, smiling as Emmalie tilted her brandy to her lips to swallow the capsules. Em was left to die, while Michelle cleaned herself up. Washing off the blood, burning the clothing she'd worn, disposing of the ashes.

The tragic story of the murder suicide at Stafford Manor would be all over the news by six a.m. And the poor heiress, only twenty-three years old… left orphaned. Michelle smirked at the thought, as she turned back towards her bed… she'd need to rest to keep the act going tomorrow.

Ian Windsor had been Harold and Emmalie Stafford's attorney for thirty years. In those three decades he had often wished for their demise. They were two of the most dense, obnoxious, and toxic human beings he had ever known. Not only were they vile, they had no idea how to handle anything in their own lives. Almost every day he was dealing with some new grievance, or issue of theirs. Honestly, he would have left several years ago… if it hadn't been for their daughter.

The last thing that Ian had ever wanted to do for them was drag a child into their mess, but his hands were rather tied… he knew if he didn't do it… someone else would. At least if he stuck around, he could ensure the child was properly cared for. He'd taken great pains to only hire the best help to tend to her. He'd also been funneling a considerable amount of money into a fund for her, fearing that they would never alter their will to benefit her. Fortunately, they had. She would be entitled to everything.

And now they were dead. Honestly, he felt nothing. The entirety of the world would be better off without them. Ian, wasn't entirely sure if he bought the murder-suicide story, there had been something very off about Michelle for the past several years. He still had a job to do, however… and if she had killed them… that was entirely her business. The less he knew, the less he could be implicated in himself.

A maid had left him in the dining room to go fetch Michelle, and Ian took several moments to be sure he had all of the paperwork.

Going over it all hadn't taken long, Michelle knew what to expect with all of the official paperwork. The accounts and such were familiar to her. It was the last envelope that he was dreading. The papers inside would likely throw the girl for a loop, but she deserved to know.

"Now, Michelle, this last bit isn't anything financial… it's more of a personal matter for you. You parents had never intended to tell you, but I feel you have the right to know."

Michelle raised an eyebrow, Ian was usually rather sure of himself, seeing him off kilter was… strange. She gingerly took the envelope and opened it. Dumping the few papers inside out onto the table. The first was from an adoption agency. Her eyes shot up to him.

"The fuck is this?" She asked, looking over the paper at him. Ian let out a suffering sigh. "In 1977, your parents decided they needed to adopt a child… they claimed they were lonely…" Another sigh, and Ian reached for the bourbon that Michelle had brought out for them. "I found you in a foster home in Illinois in '79. You were six months old at the time." He reached out, picking up the other, smaller sheet on the table. "This is your birth certificate. There was no information to be found on you… other than this. It was issued at a mental hospital."

Michelle felt very little at this, it didn't take a genius to figure out she didn't spawn from those two morons. She scanned the paper, a woman named Ingrid Schneider was listed as her mother. But her father's name had been redacted. "Why wouldn't he be listed?" She said, looking at Ian.

Well, at least she was handling it well… "I honestly don't know. Every question I asked only lead to a dead end. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

"Can you at least tell me which hospital?"

"I believe it was called…. Smith's Grove."


	2. Identical

_**For the disclaimer, please see the prologue. I don't feel the need to repost it every time I update. Needless to say, I am making no profit off of this story. It's simply for my own twisted amusement and self-expression.**_

November 16th, 2001

Smiths Grove

Illinois

Michelle stood on the sidewalk just outside of Smiths Grove Mental Facility. The wind was chilly, forcing cold to seep into her skin even through her thick coat. She'd often heard that winters in the State's Midwest were comparable to England, but honestly this was the coldest she thought she had ever been, but she couldn't decide if it was actually because of the weather, or the reason that she was standing there.

After Ian Windsor, her family's attorney, had left her home on November 1st, Michelle had launched herself into figuring out exactly where she came from. Granted, there wasn't much to go off of, however fortunately, the internet existed. Well, it would have been fortunate, had it turned up anything. Hours of Ask Jeeves and Yahoo searches turned up nothing of use. Only that Smith's Grove Hospital was the notorious facility that had housed, subsequently lost and readmitted Michael Myers, and then links and stories pertaining to that. Everyone in the world knew that story, and it didn't help her in the least. She had, however, managed to dig up a phone number. The woman she'd spoken to was the head nurse, and had worked there for thirty years. However when Michelle asked about a baby being born there in 1978 the woman had clammed up and refused to speak anymore.

Two weeks later, armed with only a birth certificate and the name of a doctor, Michelle boarded a flight for New York City. From there she would catch an adjoining flight to Chicago, and then rent a car to drive herself the hour to the hospital. It was so much effort, and honestly if it weren't for the shady way everyone was behaving, she probably wouldn't care at all. She'd have made her way back to university to continue drinking her way through a journalism degree. But the way that nurses voice had changed while speaking to her, triggered something inside of her. Suddenly this had become her singular mission.

Her boots crunched over half frozen leaves as she made her way towards the front entrance. The door gave with a slight push, leading her into a enclosed foyer. A plain wooden bench sat next to a coat rack in front of a yellowing white wall. The building held the slightest stench of mildew, and looked like it hadn't been updated since the sixties. Across from the bench, was a windowed reception area, through the glass Michelle could see a mop of curly red hair. She tapped, snapping the young receptionist away from her magazine. The girl fixed her glasses before opening the window.

"Help you?" The receptionist asked, annoyance sounding in her nasally voice.

"Yeah, I'd like to speak to Doctor Jonathan Wynn, please." Michelle snapped back, trying to control her temper, but the general American rudeness she'd been faced with over the past few hours was weighing on her, and this ginger bitch was not helping.

Without a reply, the receptionist picked up a phone. "Someone to see ya, Doc…. kay. I will. Thanks." The receiver snapped down, and with a sickening sweet smile, and a tone that damn near cost her her tongue, the woman said. "Someone'll be right down to get 'cha." With that the window slammed shut, and Ginger-Bitch went back to her Cosmo.

Michelle's fist clenched, but a deep breath helped her sit down. She fiddled with the paper in her pocket, while listening to the sounds around her. Someone was having a rough day, or lifetime, judging by the sounds of the screaming and yelling floating around the hallway. For one, idle, moment she realized she was sitting in the same building that currently house the Midwest Boogeyman. That thought made her chuckle to herself and shake her head.

After what was probably fifteen minutes, but may as well been an hour from how long it felt, some footfalls came towards the gate that separated the reception area from the rest of the hospital. Michelle looked up to see a younger man striding towards her was tall and thin, with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. He couldn't have been any older than thirty, and the fake smile on his face was in deep contrast to his tired eyes. "I am sorry for the wait," He said, speaking in a refined upper Midlands accent. Michelle wasn't expecting that, but it was refreshing to hear something more akin to her own voice after the midwestern drawls of everyone around her. "Doctor Wynn will see you now, Miss…?"

"Stafford… Michelle." She said, running her fingers through her hair to push it aside and away from her face. Also to avoid shaking the hand he'd extended to her. She just didn't like touching people.

"Ah, well… my name is David Loomis, I'm an intern here working under Doctor's Wynn, Loomis and Sartain." David said, politely. In all honesty he didn't know what to make of her. She was striking, that was for sure, but he wasn't sure if it was her or the fact she was sporting about eight different pieces of metal in her face. Or the thick black that surrounded her eyes. She looked like she belonged in Westminster in the 80's, but sounded as if she were from Chelsea. "If you'll follow me." He said, and lead her through the gate, where they were flanked by two security guards.

Michelle remained quiet as she was lead through the halls to what she assumed would be the office block. The floors were grey from years of being walked on, and the walls weren't fairing much better. Most of the light fixtures looked to be at least as old as she was, or likely older. And just the overall feeling of the place was… odd. The few orderlies they passed in the halls looked as broken down and beaten as the patients they were leading around.

David lead her to a set of double doors, pushing them open and gesturing for her to enter. It was an office, dimly lit, but seeming in better shape than the rest of the building. The wood paneled walls reminded her of Harold Stafford's office, but she could assume the books shelved here were real.

Behind the polished, mahogany desk sat an older man, what was left of his hair was stark white. Thick glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and he wore a rather expensive looking black suit. The man, who she saw was in fact Doctor Wynn, based on the nameplate on his desk, was writing something down. "Thank you, David." Wynn said, finally looking up at the two of them. "I believe your father could use some assistance in the maximum security wing."

Michelle watched the color drain from David's face, but he nodded and backed out of the room. "Please sit." He said, and Michelle sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Upon further inspection the desk, and chairs were scuffed and cracked, much like everything else she'd come across here. "I am Doctor Jonathan Wynn." He said, introducing himself. Though he sat with his back straight and eyes trained on her, she could easily tell his alertness was mostly a front. The deep lines in his face spoke of a life of stress that had lead him to be thoroughly exhausted.

"Michelle Stafford." Michelle responded, before she extracted the birth certificate from her coat pocket. "Doctor… I need your help with something. My parents passed away a couple weeks ago…" She was sure to look appropriately distraught at the thought, "Our attorney gave me this," she said, handing him the paper.

It happened so quickly that she would have missed it had she blinked. A look of pure dread and fear flashed across his face. Her recovered quickly enough, but she caught it, her eyebrow raising.

This wasn't a moment Jonathan Wynn had ever hoped he would have to encounter. If she could have waited just another month he would have been retired, and wouldn't have to be doing this. His mind flashed back to that morning, on October 31st, 1978.

They had just managed to round up the last of the patients that had managed to wander themselves out onto the road and down to the nearby town. All except for one, that is. It had taken the entire night, and then he'd had to deal with Loomis. The man had been a wreck when he found out the one patient they hadn't been able to recover. Sam had torn out of the parking lot like a mad man, just as Wynn was being paged back inside.

He was needed in the medical wing, where one of his own patients had been held for the past four months. Ingrid was a nice girl, but deeply disturbed. When she had arrived at the hospital in 1976 she was severely sleep deprived, with enough morphine in her to take down an elephant, and covered in blood. It had taken Wynn four months to find out exactly what happened. She'd murdered her boyfriend and his family while on a very bad trip. Unfortunately, though she showed signs of improvement, she would never be able to leave. When the drugs had finally left her system, it was clear she was suffering from schizophrenia. It was extreme, and would require constant treatment.

And to top it all off, in March of 1978 it was discovered that she was pregnant. No one knew how it had happened, or with whom, and Ingrid definitely wasn't talking. It appeared she'd already given birth when he arrived. No one had known she was even in labor, she'd been so quiet about it. The nurses only knew it had happened once the child started crying.

When Wynn arrived in the room, he was met with a mess of blood. Ingrid was dead, and the infant had been taken to another room. He left the nurses and orderlies to deal with Ingrid, he went to check on the child. A nurse was just wrapping the little thing up in a blanket. "It's a girl…" she said, sadly. The nurses had loved Ingrid, though she had her dark moments and often refused to sleep for a days at a time, it was hitting them all rather hard. "She said her name is Michelle." The nurse turned to him, holding the little one close. Wynn had leaned in to look at her, and nearly felt himself thrown back when her little girl opened her eyes. They were black as death.

As the day progressed, and news started rolling in on the escapades of their escaped patient, Wynn had been interviewing several of the staff that had tended to Ingrid over the past few months. He didn't learn anything he didn't know. Ingrid was sweet, and insane, but stayed clear of the other patients. Except for one…

And now here he sat, across from the baby that he had held twenty-three years before. She was looking at him with a cocked eyebrow. Wynn took a very deep breath, and busied himself for a moment, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of his left hand desk drawer, along with two glasses. He poured them both to the top, and sat one in front of her.

"I'd like to try my best to discourage you from pursuing this any further, but even as a newborn you were stubborn…" He said, giving her a half assed cheers before taking a deep drink from his glass. Sitting here, now, looking at her, he could see it clear as day. Built like her mother… but every other feature was identical to him…

"So I was born here?" She said, ignoring the alcohol for now. Wynn had seemed to completely deflate, and now clearly wanted nothing more than to be as drunk as possible.

"Yes… you were." Wynn replied solemnly. When Michelle had entered this room moments ago it was obvious he was a man well into his twilight years, but now he looked positively ancient. His skin was almost grey, and the lines in his face were deeper. And oh, did he look tired. If Michelle were capable of empathy she might feel bad, obviously her presence here was distressing him. But she had come way too far, both literally and figuratively, to be dissuaded at this point.

"Doctor," She said, refining her accent a bit in an attempt to portray a much calmer self than she felt at the moment, "I can see this is unpleasant for you. Though I can't imagine why, but please understand I've already been through a lot. My parents weren't the greatest people… but I never wanted to lose them. And now…" She breathed out a sad sigh, looking down at her hands. "Now I found out that they aren't even really my parents. No one has been willing to talk to me... and I just want to know where I came from."

Jonathan looked at the girl in front of him, he felt for her, truly. His own intern spent every moment of the work day with his own father and didn't even really know him. "I understand your pain, my dear, I do. But I'm afraid the answers you're seeking will only serve to hurt you more. If you're sure, I'll tell you… but I am begging you to reconsider this."

"I have to know." She replied, not missing a beat.

Before responding, Wynn poured himself another drink and downed it in one go. He was just delaying the inevitable at this point, he knew, but… fuck he didn't want to have this conversation. "What do you know about what happened here the night you were born?"

"You mean the Michael Myers thing?" She said, it was the only claim to fame this place had after all.

He nodded, swirling around the dregs of alcohol in his glass. "I was called away just after the morning meeting… your mother.. Ingrid… had just given birth to you. She… didn't survive, unfortunately, somehow her uterine wall perforated and she bled out internally. She did… name you however."

Michelle didn't react to that, no reason to be upset over a woman she didn't know, though she supposed the fact she never would know her sucked. "And my father?"

The silence was deafening, the way it descended on the room and took hold tight. Michelle didn't like it, it made her squirm a little in her chair, her annoyance rising. "No one really knows how it happened…" Wynn started, a haunted, terrified look settling on his face, "He'd never shown any inclination… never so much as moved without provocation. But… the nurses assumed it was your mother's doing.. She was always far more interested in him than he her."

"Can yeh jus' say what yer' trying not to say?" Michelle bit out, her accent always deepend when she was annoyed… or angry… or drunk. With an exasperated sigh, Wynn withdrew a file from his desk and tossed it down in front of her, jostling her still full glass of amber liquid. Confused, she picked it up, reading the name 'Myers, Michael A.'

Her eyebrows shot up to her forehead, as she reached out to pick up the file. Her heart was hammering in her chest, there was no way he was telling her that _he_ was her father… right?

Flicking open the cover was all the answer she needed. Staring up at her was a photograph of a man, with pale skin, and black eyes. The timestamp in the corner told her this photograph was only six months old, making the man in it forty three years old. There was a sprinkling of gray in his blue black hair, there were some lines around his black eyes… one of which showed signs of partial blindness. She was looking at a photograph of an unmasked Michael Myers.

But more, she was looking at her own face. Older, and male… but it was her face.

"The resemblance is uncanny…" Wynn said, picking up her untouched glass, holding it out for her. She snatched it, and downed it in less than a second it seemed. Poor girl… he had warned her, yet still felt he could have done more to prevent this pain.

However, for Michelle, so many things were clicking into place… so much about her suddenly just made sense.

"Where is he?" She asked, finally raising her eyes to meet the Doctor's.


	3. Immaculate Misconception

_**See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.**_

 _ **Thank you all for your wonderful reviews, pm's and follows thus far. Updates may be coming slower now that we're nearing the holidays, and with myself trying to prevent my own bad habit of cranking chapters out too quickly and burning myself out. After 16 years of trying to write this story, I'd like to actually finish it once and for all. Please be patient.**_

 _ **To answer the PM asking me what the hell Ask Jeeves is (thank you for making me feel old as fuck, btw.) There was an era in the early days of the internet that Google didn't really exist in yet (it was there, but not that reliable and definitely not the default). This was the late 90's/early 2000's. Your choice of search engines was limited mostly to Yahoo and Ask Jeeves. So… that.**_

 _ **We're not quite into the gritty yet, but it's coming, so I'll take the time now to inform you of the trigger warnings for this story. Drug and Alcohol abuse, Violence, Gore, Matricide, Patricide, Fratricide, Language, (mentions of) Rape, Theistic Satanism, Occult Themes, Incest, Mental, Emotional, and Physical Abuse, and lots and lots of death. I'll include the appropriate warnings at the beginning of each chapter from now on. Remember, the primary theme of this is Horror, the genera that is meant to make you uncomfortable, uneasy and at times disgusted. I encountered an issue early on in the last iteration of this story with people asking (telling) me to tone it down. Let me be clear here. NO. I will not adjust my story for anyone's sake. If you don't like it, don't read it. It really is that easy. I've done my part to protect you all. I've rated this as high as you can on this site, and am providing appropriate warnings. The rest is on you. You need to take yourself into consideration first and foremost when exploring the depths if horror, if there's something you think you may not be okay with, it's best to avoid it. Though, being adventurous isn't always the worst thing.**_

 _ **Trigger Warnings for this chapter: Rape**_

 _ **That's enough out of me…**_

Doctor Wynn would be lying if he said the sudden shift in her was unnerving, but like most things, he took it in stride. He cleared his throat, "You must understand that there are currently several restrictions placed on Michael. Miss Stafford. Though you and I both know that you are his progeny… there are certain legalities but in place both to protect him, and everyone else."

Michelle, who's eyes had flicked down to the photograph in her lap, looked back up. "Such as?" Her head tilted somewhat to the side, and Wynn suppressed a shudder. He'd seen that expression so many times in the past twenty-three years, but never from a young woman. It seemed that some mannerisms were hereditary.

"Michael is currently a ward of the government, no one but his physicians, select staff members, and confirmed blood relatives are permitted to see him. Up until you came into this room, his only known existing relatives were Laurie Strode and her daughter. Laurie has only been here once… about sixteen years ago, to confirm he was still here."

"So what… I need a paternity test?" Michelle said. It wasn't so much a question as the obvious course of action. DNA testing was in its infancy when she was born, but now you could walk into any clinic in the world and have it done. She wasn't upset at Wynn, he had a job to do after all, and Myers was the definition of 'dangerous patient'.

"That would be the best course of action, but I am warning you now. The Governor's Office has been attempting to dump Myers off of any person they can, they no longer want to be responsible for him, especially since it's extremely unethical to execute a mental patient. By going through with this, confirming your relationship with him, you will be expected to claim custody of your father. He will become your responsibility, though he will remain here."

"And Laurie only hasn't be saddled with him because of what happened." Michelle concluded, nearly rolling her eyes.

"Laurie Strode is her own brand of issue now…" Wynn said, sadly. "Miss Stafford, you need to understand the danger of going through with this. If custody is transferred, Michael will be informed. He will know you exist. That's assuming he doesn't have an inkling already. You'll be putting yourself at risk."

Of course she understood that, she may be young but she was far from stupid. The legality of the situation wasn't lost on her, nor the peril. But… there was the sick part of her mind, the part that was slowly taking over, that was thrilled by the prospect. She be able to speak to him, spend time in the presence of one of the most intriguing and notorious serial killers in the world. This shit used to fascinate her as a child, and now as an adult she had an opportunity. But more… she had a father she actually wanted now. Not that she expected this to at all be a 'normal' relationship… but at least she had things in common with this one. "Can you do the test here, or do I need to get a court order?"

Wynn's face fell, and he nodded slowly, picking up one of the intercom/walkie-talkie devices off of his desk. "David… are you free?" 'Are you free' was code between all of the staff at the hospital, used whenever anything involving Michael Myers needed to be discussed while Sam Loomis was around. Why the old man was even still allowed to treat Myers no one knew, likely just his tenure and the fact he was painfully familiar with the man. Still, his role was mostly ceremonious at this point, as Loomis would soon be forced into retirement.

"Yes Doctor Wynn." David's voice came from the speaker.

"I need you to collect a cheek swab from Myers and send it down to the lab, it's going to be crossed matched. You'll bring me the results when you're done." Wynn said, forcing professionalism into his voice, despite how badly he didn't want to do it. "You will not mention to anyone why you're doing this."

"Why… am I doing this, Sir?" David asked, his voice betraying his fear of getting close to Myers.

"Exactly the point." Wynn said, cutting off the intercom, and then paging for a nurse.

~O~

An hour later Michelle was standing at the window to the office, looking down at the orange and cream colored courtyard below her. There were a dozen patients in white jumpsuits standing there, chained down to weights. Most of them were off in their own worlds, laughing or yelling at things that no one else could see. There was one though. Tall and immobile, staring straight ahead. The moment her eyes fell on him, she knew exactly who she was looking at. She couldn't quite make out the details of his face, but when she looked at him, she felt something in her gut that told her she was looking at her father. She couldn't have been looking at him for more than a minute before his head shifted, almost imperceptibly, and he stared right back at her. Michelle refused to drop his gaze, instead she put her hands on the window frame and leaned forward, now locked in a staring contest with the Midwest Boogeyman. The sound in the room, Wynn typing on his computer, the ticking of the clock, it all seemed to fade away… until all she could hear was her own breathing and slow, steady heartbeat in her ears. It was strange, to suddenly realize that… despite all evidence as to why she should be… she wasn't afraid at all. The tilt of his head lead her to imitate it, but the spell was broken when the door to the office opened, and in stepped a rather disturbed looking David Loomis.

"I… uhm. I crossed matched the samples you asked for… oh hello Miss Stafford…" David said, stumbling over himself some. He stopped, looking at Wynn for direction.

Michelle had turned around, leaning against the window frame with her arms crossed under her bust. She could still feel eyes burning holes into her back. "You can continue, David… this concerns Michelle too." Wynn said, sounding exhausted. Realization dawned on David's face, and he unconsciously took a step away from Michelle, who only rolled her eyes.

"Get on with it, will ya?" She said, mildly offended.

"O-oh… right. Well… I ran the test three times.. I thought it was a glitch but…" David held the clipboard out to Wynn, who sighed as he read it over.

"This isn't possible…" Said the much older man, rubbing his hand under his chin in contemplative confusion.

"I am aware of that sir, which is why I ran it three times. The results were the same each time."

"Oi!" Michelle said, waving her arms dramatically. "This is me we're talkin' about here so how about clueing me in on what is so bloody goddamn impossible!"

Wynn sighed, handing her the board. "This, Miss Stafford. These test results… show that your genetic makeup is somehow more Michael than your mother, 70:30… as opposed to 50:50."

Michelle blinked, looking down at the paper… for the first time she could recall… she was rather speechless. Aside from a proclivity with drugs, Michelle didn't share much with her mother, at least from what she'd been told so far. But… as they'd waited.. Wynn had kindly told her of all the little mannerisms she was displaying that made it seem like he was sitting in a room with Michael.

"That impassive look on your face… your head tilting. The only difference if you actually speak…" He's said. She got the feeling she made him very uncomfortable. Still… this was insane…

"Did you sign off on this David?" Wynn asked, keeping an eye on the woman, as she stared at the paper in her hand.

"Yes, Sir."

Wynn looked at Michelle, "Miss Stafford… would you like me to file this with the courts?" He was holding out a pen to her, which she slowly took, scratching her signature down without a word, before turning back to the window, while Wynn explained what to do to David.

"He's looking at me." She said, in a far off voice that shook both men to her attention. He was though, Michael had broken his shackles and was standing at the fence… so much closer now, looking up into the second story window at her. David was suddenly at her side.

"Shit!" He yelled, grabbing the intercom. "Lockdown! Lockdown! Secure Myers and return him to his room!" He yelled into the microphone. Neither Michelle nor Michael paid much attention to the sudden chaos erupting around them both. She stood, holding his gaze, as the guards rushed him. Held it as two tranquilizer darts hit him in the back, and even held it as he sank to the ground limp and useless. Michelle only looked away as his eyes closed… and he was loaded onto and secured to a stretcher.

The other two fell silent, and Michelle just gathered her things. "I'll be back…."

~O~

The next week was spent signing forms, running back and forth between Springfield to deal with her father's custody, and Haddonfield to deal with her new property.

The house had been in legal limbo, technically it belonged to Michael, who couldn't claim it. So it was offered to Laurie who didn't want it. Haddonfield was rather grateful to have someone to unload it on, though now they were pushing for permission to demolish it. Michelle kindly told them to fuck off. The Governor's Office was much the same, happy not to have to deal with it anymore. They practically shoved the documents at her, and likely threw a party when she finally left.

Money talks in the States, and her citizenship and name change came through in less than a month. No one understood why she would she would sacrifice her adopted parents good name, that held power, for one of the most tainted names in this part of the states, and honestly, if Michelle thought about it, she didn't either. She'd been a Schneider for the first six months of her life, and then Stafford for the rest of it. She supposed she just didn't feel the need to cling to a past she didn't want, a past that she put an end to herself. She had no idea where her future was heading, but fuck, she'd be lying if she said the possibilities didn't excite her.

She finally got to ask questions, like why no one had ever spoken about this. Wynn explained that extreme precautions were taken to protect her after it was discovered Michael was targeting his family members. Much like Laurie, her existence was covered up, Michelle's benefit over her Aunt was the fact Michael was entirely unaware that she existed at all. At least they assumed. Gag orders were in place, and all of her records were locked away. As far as anyone knew, she was just an unwanted baby, born to an extreme schizophrenic.

As far as _how_ she came to be, no one had any answers. Anne, the head nurse who had been there around the time of Michelle's immaculate misconception, told her that Ingrid had never fared well with other patients… they aggravated her and often caused her to have rather violent outbursts. It was a fluke that she met Michael… but his silence and near catatonia didn't bother her. And she didn't seem to bother him… not that anyone would be able to tell anyways. In the interest of socializing the two of them, they were often permitted to spend time together. Ingrid would prattle on, and on, reading him books or sitting with him on a couch watching TV. Michael never participated… other than just staring at Ingrid

Then, there was a Valentines Day party for the patients, Michael wasn't permitted to attend, owing to an incident that had occured at a party many years ago, and Ingrid refused to go without him. "She thought she loved him," Anne had said, shaking her head, "Stupid girl…" There was fondness in her voice though, Anne had cared very much for the stupid girl. Anyways… there was a lockdown incident that night, overly excited patients had taken over the room and were running loose. Anne and the other nurse had considered separating Michael and Ingrid, but decided against it. He'd had ample opportunity to harm her before and never had, so they were locked in the room and left alone. When they'd returned an hour later they were both in their same spots, though Ingrid had her head on his shoulder.

"If she hadn't gotten pregnant, we would have never known anything happened." Anne said, with a sigh. "Thirty-seven weeks later, you were born."

Anne didn't believe for a moment that Michael had initiated it, Ingrid was what she was, and had made no secret of her frustrations. Men, at least on a physical level, don't require much more than stimulation… and Ingrid knew this. How the hell she survived it, Anne didn't know. And Michelle couldn't quell the uneasy feeling of learning she was likely a rape baby...

Michelle sat at a conference table now, a stack of papers in front of her, and Doctor Wynn across from her. They were waiting for Doctors Loomis and Sartain to arrive. She'd been warned well before hand, that Loomis wouldn't take this well… and Sartain likely too well. They were different sides of the same coin, those two.

David Loomis entered first, stopping only to nod in Michelle's direction, before he took a seat. He was followed by another man, short and portly with a rather amazing moustache. He kindly greeted them all, before taking a seat. Then, the sound of a cane, ticking on the floor tiles, it was slow, stopping every few moments. But he made his way in, stopping for a moment to look at everyone present, nodding to each of them. Except Michelle, who seemed to cause him to freeze, eyes widening. "Take a seat, Sam." Wynn said, as David pulled out a chair for his father.

"What is this all about, Jonathan." Sam asked, still eyeballing Michelle from his pariphary.

"We're waiting for one more, Sam." Wynn said, reaching for his water glass. Michelle felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest, and gripped onto the edge of the table. Two guards entered the room, flanking a third, who was pushing a wheelchair. In that chair, was Michael Myers… wrapped up tight in a straitjacket, and chains. He was slumped, obviously drugged, but the guards were still stationed behind him… one with a dart gun aimed right at the base of his neck.

David, without saying anything, moved a few chairs away. Sartain was grinning like an idiot, and Loomis just looked defeated. For Michelle's part, she stared at him.

"Would you like to explain this to me, Wynn?" Sam repeated again. Wynn only gestured to Michelle.

"I'll leave that up to Miss Myers, here."

Michael's head snapped up, and he locked his eyes with Michelle, who held his gaze for several long moments. The guard behind him, gripped his gun a little tighter.

"Miss… Myers?" Sam repeated, looking between the young woman and his friend in confusion. Michelle almost felt bad, there was probably a better way to dump this on the old man, but Wynn had assured her it didn't matter how they broached this subject… it wasn't going to be received well. "Michelle…" She said, softly, turning a sympathetic look to Sam. "I understand that his may come as a shock, and I do apologize…"

"How did you dig up another relative… do you realize the danger you've put this girl in?" Sam said, turning back to Wynn, who only offered a whitered look back."

"Doctor Loomis…" Michelle said, with a sigh. "Doctor Wynn had nothing to do with this," Michelle tried her best to ignore the eyes that were burning a hole in her head. Being this close to him, separated only by a table, was rather unnerving. Michelle wouldn't say that she was scared… but it was a strange feeling to be sure. She quickly explained the death of her adopted parents,, and subsequently discovering her adoption.

"You knew about this… and never told me…"

"There were gag orders in place, Doctor Loomis, Doctor Wynn couldn't say anything."

"Zis is fascinating." Sartain said, speaking up for the first time. Everyone looked at him with raised eyebrows, except Michael, who seemed to be trying to kill Michelle with his mind. Or likely imaging how he was going to kill her. "Michael 'as never shown interest, so ze fact you're.."

"The product of rape?" Michelle said, narrowing her eyes at the man. "It wasn't him… it was my mother."

"Myers is a lot of things, Sartain, but rapists isn't among them." David chimed in, but it was the volatile look on Michelle's face and Michael's fists clenching that silenced Sartain.

"We could sit here all day discussin' exactly 'ow I came to be." Michelle said, accent slipping again, "But the only one that can tell us is him." She gestured towards Michael. "And e's not in a hurry to share." She opened the file in front of her, "I've reclaimed custody of my father," She said, snapping herself back to her more incontrol state. "This means that I'm in charge… any decisions regarding my father's care… medications, treatments, staff… all have to be approved by me from now on. I'll be staying nearby while I figure out my living arrangements. Any questions?" She concluded, glancing around. No one made to move, so she shrugged.

"I'd like to speak to my dad alone now." She said, finally meeting Michael's eyes again.

 _ **Honestly wasn't sure if I'd get this out today. That meeting was a pain to write.. Too many characters all at once, I'm not overall happy with it, but honestly I'm not sure what else I could have done. Anyways, Blessed Samhain… or Happy Hallowe'en… whatever this day is to you. Have a good one, and please be safe.**_


	4. The First Meeting

_**Thank you again for the wonderful response it means a lot.**_

The only noise in the room was a distant clock ticking away, and the combined steady breathing of Michelle and Michael Myers. He was staring at her, she was staring at her hands. This was the moment she'd been waiting for, but now that it was here she had no idea what to do. He didn't speak, and she didn't know what to say. Even if he did she wouldn't know what to say. This was one weird, fucked up situation she'd gotten herself into. And now there was no way out… except death… which she was sure he had an idea or two for. She sighed.

"This was fucking stupid…" Michelle mumbled, Michael tilted his head. She fought not to roll her eyes. Michelle was the queen of stupid ideas and bad decisions, a realization that came to her once again as she sat here, looking at her own face on her father. Doctor Sartain, whom Michelle had quickly decided she did not like, had made rather a big deal about their resemblance as the interview room was prepared for them. To the point of asking her questions at nauseum in a not so subtle way of trying to uncover other similarities between them. Did she have violent tendencies, dark thoughts… she'd not so kindly asked him to shut the fuck up, and went on to talk to David Loomis, at least he had a sense of British propriety. Sam Loomis however, hovered on the edge of the scene like a storm cloud. She didn't know what to think of him…

Or Michael for that matter. By this point… this man was largely legendary. The boy who killed his sister only to wait in silence for fifteen years to get out and kill the younger one. Or attempt to at least… Laurie.. Or Cynthia… was an entirely different matter. Crazy in her own special way now. At least Michelle knew it was all hereditary. Anyways… Her psychology and sociology classes had studied Michael Myers rather extensively, or at least as much as they could with the information that was available to them at the time. Loomis' book had been a helpful tool. As helpful as something trying to drive home that her father isn't crazy… just evil, could be. She knew he'd been seen by over fifty psychiatrists… no one could figure out what was wrong with him because they couldn't get him to speak.

Therein was the issue though, wasn't it. Everyone wanted him to talk. No one considered if he could. He barely made more than a grunt in thirty-six years. And even before then, he'd been a quiet child. Michelle had gotten a hold of both Judith and her Grandmother's diaries, David had been kind enough to provide her with all the hospital had on him. They both spoke a lot about Michael, his silence and strange behavior. The hours he would spend just staring at walls or out windows, how he would only eat two or three things, how they would have to press him to get him to verbally respond to anything. All of these bleeding doctors, and it took one girl with a bachelor's degree in psychology to figure out it wasn't that he didn't know how to speak… it was that he physically couldn't. And, likely, he didn't feel the need to.

"Okay…" She said, sitting up straighter again. "Let's try this… I'll ask you a question, and you'll respond. Yes…" She tapped her finger on the table once, "no…" She tapped her finger twice. "Can you do that?"

The question was left hanging in the air, as he only proceeded to stare at her. And stare. And stare. If Michelle were any other woman, she would be squirming with the intensity of that stare. She'd be uncomfortable, and likely thinking of how to leave the room. Michelle was Michelle however, and returned that stare with one of her own. Despite it being mid-December, and the hospital's heating being questionable at best, Michelle was stifling. Like the intensity of his gaze was causing her blood to boil.

But then, it happened. She watched as he lifted his hand, the chain binding his wrists clanking loudly on the table, and he stabbed his finger right onto the cold, metal surface once. She was almost sure there was a dent left behind, but she didn't keep her eyes from his for several seconds.

Inside the observation room there were four sets of eyes staring through the two way mirror in shock. Had she just… elicited communication from him? No one had been able to manage that in the combined 39 years that Michael had been in this facility. Sartain turned his head to speak, however Loomis just silenced him with a look. Now was so not the time.

"Do you remember Ingrid? She was a patient here with you in the seventies." Michelle asked, her eyes flicking from his face to his hand. If he was thinking anything, it wasn't obvious, his face as impassive as ever. Again, after several seconds, the same finger tapped the table just once. She let out a breath she had been unaware she'd even been holding. Conscious of how close she could safely get to him, as if any distance in the same room as him was far enough away, she leaned forward.

"Do you… remember… what she did to you?"

Tap.

Somehow, if it were possible, his eyes turned colder as he made the gesture. Though his overall expression didn't change, the abyssal pools of his eyes did. Michelle suppressed a shiver she could feel building at the base of her spine. She summoned a deep breath, she was almost scared. Almost… though something in the back of her head was telling her she had nothing to be worried about… she'd be the first to admit her poor decision making skills were outstanding. "Do… do you understand what that was…?" The question felt stupid, but she had no idea at this point what he understood or didn't.

He slammed his hand on the table, and again Michelle held careful control over her reactions to him. Her heart however, leapt into her throat, and before she even had a second to move back she found her jaw in a vice grip. Somehow, in the second from the question left her mouth, to now, he'd snapped his chain and grabbed her. Michelle slammed the wall down around her mind, denying her fight or flight instinct. A wave of impassiveness passed over her face as she stared him down, matching his death glare with one of her own.

Michael stared at the woman, this girl who was claiming to be his child. He wasn't an idiot, he was fully aware of what he'd participated in with Ingrid, the highly irritating and ever present thorn in his side twenty-two years ago. Not that he'd ever given it much thought, but he'd never been able to understand why her tolerated her, which as close as she got it would have been so easy, so very easy to eliminate that problem. But he never did… and then one day she was just gone, no longer hovering around him like a fly. He'd never given her another thought… until now.

This girl, however, this Michelle… he couldn't even deny to himself that she looked like him. Almost identically, though her features were decidedly more feminine. Their eyes, nose, and lips were the same, but her face was slimmer, with higher cheekbones and a more pointed chin. Like Ingrid.

Why wasn't she afraid? Michael had often come across people who feigned bravery towards him, but this wasn't fake. She was genuinely not afraid, or at least not enough for it to effect her. Could it actually be that he had fathered this woman? Yes, there was that test, whatever it was. He didn't really understand it, but now… looking at her.. He couldn't deny…

She was speaking to him…

"Dad… daddy…" She said, as he tuned back into the situation around him.

Michelle had been speaking for the past few seconds, but no one seemed to be home. She could feel the bruises forming on her chin and neck, but still didn't try to pull away. In the observation room, Loomis had already called for security. Everything had transpired so fast that neither Myers' noticed when the door burst open. Suddenly the hand on her face was much looser, and Michelle sat and watched as Michael slumped in his chair, his head landing on the table, with several darts protruding from his neck.

David Loomis was the first in the room, hurrying around the table to Michelle while the elder Loomis and Sartain saw to having Michael removed from the room.

"Are you alright?" David asked, looking over at Michelle who was just staring as her father's limp, unconscious form was taken out the door on a wheelchair.

"Miss Myers?" He said, shaking her a little. Michelle jumped, turning to look at him, as she breathed out.

"Yeah… yeah I'm okay."

"Are you sure? He grabbed you fairl-"

"Yes. I'm sure. It wasn't as hard as it looked." She wanted to get out of there. She wanted to get out right the fuck now… because there was no way her sober mind could process what had just happened. What she had seen in his eyes…

"I'd like to have a nurse look at you, Miss Myers." The elder Loomis said, in a very tired voice. Even he, in his thirty-eight years of dealing with Michael Myers didn't know what to make of what had just happened. Michelle only shook her head in response.

"Zat vas amazing," Sartain said, now making his way to Michelle who fixed him with a glare that may have taken his head off, if such things were possible. He stopped short.

"No nurses. No discussion. I'm leaving… I'll be back in a few days." She said, grabbing her purse off of the floor under her chair where it had been stashed since she got in the room.

"I really do not think it's wise to try this again…" Sam said, his face falling Michelle could only spin to look at him, head tilting in a very familiar manner.

"With all due respect, Doctor. I don't bloody care what you think is wise, no do any of you get much of a say in the matter." She looked at the other two, and gestured to the table. "Do you see what happened? He's willing to fuckin' talk to me… I made more progress in a half hour than anyone here has managed in damn near forty years. I'm coming back, end of bleedin' story."

With that, she marched from the room. And all but fled from the hospital all together, barely remembering to stop and sign herself out. The drive from the hospital back to Chicago passed in a blur, and if you asked her she'd say she had no idea how she managed it without killing anymore.

Her mind didn't catch up to her until she was sitting in her hotel bathtub, with scalding water up to her shoulders, a bottle of hastly purchased JD in her hand and a cigarette dangling between her lips.

Looking into his eyes, her own father's eyes, had been like staring through the gates of Hell. She could see it, almost everything he'd ever done… she saw. She _heard_ the knife slicing into Judith's flesh and sternum, felt the vibration of Annie Brakett's wheezing attempts to breath as she was strangled. In the span of a few moments, Michelle experienced everything that happened the night she entered the world.

How… just… how…?

 _ **I'm sorry, I know that was short and unfulfilling, and I know that it's been far too long since I updated this. I really do feel awful about it, but… life has taken a few turns lately. I won't bore you with details, but getting the time and ability to write has been a struggle, and it may continue to be so. As I've said before I CANNOT promise when updates will come. I will do my best to make sure it doesn't take quite so long again. I WILL finish this, it just might take awhile.**_


	5. Self Destruction

_**Two chapters in a week. Gotta write when the muse is good, huh? I hope you enjoy.**_

 _ **Trigger Warnings:** **Blood, Drug use, sexual situations.**_

Michelle wasn't sure how long she'd been staring at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to her absurdly comfortable hotel room bed, but in all of the time, she'd not been able to bring the numbers into focus to know what they said. When the bottle of Jack Daniels she'd all but chugged in the bathtub had failed to quiet her distressed mind, she'd stumbled from the hotel and onto the streets of Chicago in search of something else. Anything else. That anything had ended up being the single dose of heroin that she managed to score from the pocket of a passing dealer. You'd think people would be a little more careful, but it seemed an idiot was an idiot no matter where they were. Also, who the fuck only bought or carried so little? Still, it would be sufficient.

It was funny, with as many things as Michelle dabbled in, she'd never found herself truly hooked on any of it. Even this. It was like she could come and go as she pleased. Essentially, she did drugs because she enjoyed them, not because she needed them. And that was just fine with her… things stayed cheaper that way. So sitting in her insanely overpriced hotel room, she shot up for the first time in at least a year. That had been… she didn't know... two hours ago? Maybe. As usual the true fun of it only lasted a half hour or so… so now she was just laying, staring at the clock in the vein hope that she'd be able to read it at some point before she passed out.

Her mind began to wander, to everything that had transpired over the past week that she had been in the states. Discovering that she was adopted wasn't exactly a shock to her, how anyone could have ever believed that those two primordial slugs had been her real parents was beyond her. No... the shock had definitely come when she got here. And if she were to be honest, it hadn't quite left her yet. Even after signing the paperwork, changing her name, and coming face to face with the man himself, she wasn't over it. What kind of weird, fucked up game was fate playing? On the other side of the coin however, so much about her suddenly made sense. Her eyes, her terrifying mind. The dark things she thought about all the time. How easy it had been to murder her the slugs. She was spawned from something that was described by his own doctor to be 'purely and simply...evil'. So what did that make her? She shorted as the word 'antichrist' flitted across her mind. Michael Myers was a lot of things, but a demon didn't appear to be one of them. No… whatever he was he was singular in that. Like something out of a horror movie brought straight into the real world.

What was strangest of all was… even with the shock… it didn't bother her. It _thrilled_ her. To actually have a figure in her life that she could understand. There wasn't some grand reason that Michael Myers killed people… he did it because that's just what he fucking did. That is what he is. Just as a she was a sociopathic, alcoholic, chain smoking wreck of a being. Something childlike and innocent tugged at her heart when she thought of him as her father. Her daddy. The only thing that she had left in the world.

Well, that wasn't entirely true… she had an aunt out there. But that wasn't a bridge she was quite ready to cross. From what she understood Laurie Strode had become her own sort of nut job. Locked up in her house on the outskirts of Haddonfield, hunkered down like a survivalist. Michelle supposed she could understand though… if she were any sort of normal, functioning human being her reaction to something like that would likely be to do the same thing. But Michelle was Michelle, and she was more likely to be the victimizer than the victim.

Still, there was a lot of weirdness that Michelle just couldn't comprehend right now. How, exactly, is a person born with more genetic dna matching one parent than another? She wasn't a biology major, or even that good at it, but any moron should be able to understand that that just wasn't possible. It was like she was a carbon copy of him, only with different chromosomes and the ability to speak. And… she could understand him. Even without speaking, she just _knew_ what was going on inside his mind.

Oh… and she'd literally seen it when he touched her. The moment his hard, calloused hand grabbed her jaw she knew everything that he'd ever done. She felt everything he'd ever felt. That's how she knew… knew that his reasons were not the same as other's. There was no gratification, sexual or otherwise. There was no glee, or joy. There was only hate. A severe and deep hatred for each and every human being that he laid eyes on. Something so primally misanthropic it almost brought her a chill.

There was some weird, mystic fuckery going on here that she wasn't capable of comprehending on her own. She made a mental note, that if she didn't overdose tonight, to call a friend of hers in Sweden.

That was her last thought before she finally slipped off into blissful unconsciousness. And when her eyes finally snapped open the room was entirely too brightly lit. The sunlight seeping in through the gauzy curtains felt like it was literally burning her eyeballs right out her head. She let out a growl that sounded entirely unhuman to her, before swinging her legs off of the bed and stumbling to her feet. Blearily grabbing for the curtains to yank them shut before half crawling into the bathroom.

That was when she noticed her state. Still naked, with her hair plastered to her cheek with vomit, and rusty colored dried blood all over her arm and side.

"Shit…" She mumbled. Musta blew a vein. But… as she looked closer there was no bruise. Or, at least, it was very faded, like it had been there for weeks rather than a few hours. Blinking in her confusion, she looked back at her face in the mirror again. Straining to lean closer, she tilted her head left, and right, and left again. There was… nothing. Before she'd fallen into her bed the night before, the bruises on her chin had been dark blue and very obvious on her ghostly white skin. But now… there was nothing. Not even the faintest trace of yellow. It was like it had never happened. Confusion crossed her own face, and Michelle stood, staring dumbly at her reflection, unsure of how to process what she was seeing. He's grabbed her hard, so hard her jaw had hurt for hours afterwards. And now….

How long had she been asleep? A glance at the digital calendar on the hotel room desk told her that it was, indeed, only the next day. Apparently, they had more in common than she thought.

She'd read in his file, that when he had been returned to Smith's Grove on November 1st, 1978, the burns that had covered his hands and neck seemed to be mostly healed, though they should have been well into the third degree… the bullet wounds to his chest had healed clean over, so much so that he'd had to be cut back open entirely to remove them. The only thing that never seemed to heal had been his left eye. Somehow, in only a few hours, it was like the injuries were weeks old. Now here she was, looking at her own, though minor in comparison, nearly gone in a matter of hours.

Fucking witchcraft… was the only thing she could think. There was something about them that wasn't entirely human. Their strength, their ability to heal. Like they were fucking mutants from a comic book, but she had a feeling it wasn't quite that cliche.

"I already need a fuckin' drink... " She mumbled to herself, as she turned on the shower, ready to wash the smell of sick and copper from her skin.

(~~)

A week to the day that Michael had last seen the girl, she was back. Sitting across from him again at the table. He was more securely strapped down this time. Chained around his elbows and strapped down at his wrists. He'd almost been in a straight jacket, though from what the guards had said she'd fought the doctors rather hard on that, flat out refusing to take it into consideration. He couldn't decide if she was brave, or stupid. Though, those things did often go hand in hand in his experience.

She wasn't speaking. She was only looking at him, mirroring his expression of indifference. He could see though, see that she that she was thinking. Trying to figure him out as he was, probably. Or thinking of more asinine questions to ask him. For a split second, he considered speaking, asking her why she came back. But honestly, he didn't care. She would join the rest of his kin next year. And it would be another irritant out of the way. He'd do it now… but the inclination wasn't there just yet.

The corner of her lips twitched.

"How will you do it?" Michelle asked, her voice soft, even in the deathly quiet room. Michael's head tilted in response. "Will I get the slow and painful treatment? Or quick and clean?"

It really didn't take a genius to figure out that he wanted to kill her… she was his blood. Obviously he wanted to kill her. She knew that, she shared his blood. More closely that anyone really, being directly from him. His one mistake in his life. She leaned forward, folding her hands on the table. This is where everything went wrong last week, clearly she was good at learning her lessons. "I'd just like to know what I have to look forward to on my birthday. The last few years have been rather uneventful. Well, this year was eventful," She said, mimicking his head tilt. "My parents, the ones who adopted me, were murdered."

There, right there, she saw it. An almost imperceptible furrowing of his brow. It happened so fast she might have imagined it, but then she watched his eyes shift to refocus on her. He understood her implication. Her silent confession designed for him to comprehend but no one else. To those listening in, she was just making inappropriate conversation… one sided though it may be.

A voice clicked over the PA, "Miss Myers…" Came Sam Loomis' voice, with what she supposed passed as his warning tone. She brushed it off and went back to staring at her father.

Michael had righted himself, no longer tilting his head. Oh he understood… she was saying that she killed them. And he could almost envision it too, she sliced the male's throat and poisoned the woman. It was more personal than he would have done, but for her it was personal. That was the difference then, she killed for vindication and pleasure… not the same force that drives him.

That wasn't entirely true, he enjoyed it in his own way.

But her cold detachment from it was all him, he realized. He felt something, in his chest, like a twinge he didn't recognize, or like. He wasn't exactly used to feeling things, and when he did, he didn't like them. Like that moment in the hospital, with Cynthia, she'd said his name and it made him pause. Anything that got in his way needed to go away. Needed to not be there. Whatever she made him feel, only deepened his hatred. As did the next words out of her mouth. "I'm not afraid of you."

Michelle kept her face cold, she meant it. Last week had been sensory overload, this week she was determined. Whatever relationship she could forge with him, she would. And she would fucking enjoy it as long as she could. She resigned herself to the fact that she wouldn't be living through her 24th birthday, but she would fucking enjoy the ride on the way to the very fucking end.

Michael watched as she stood up, and came around the table, to stand over him, looking down. Whatever she was feeling or thinking wasn't written on her face, but her presence near him… almost quieted his mind.

What is she…?

"I love you, daddy." She spoke, and dropped a kiss on his forehead. Michael looked up at her, his eyes narrowing, though no other expression came on his face. Her mother had taken such liberties with him as well, and he didn't like it. But the desire to break out of the chains just wasn't there. He only watched as she left the room, orderlies coming in right after she left the doorway.

(~~)

Michelle trailed down the hall to the observation room, slipping in with the doctors and watching as the two orderlies and guards got him secured into the wheelchair to move him back to the room.

"What are you playing at, Miss Myers?" The Elder Loomis asked her, turning his tired eyes to hers. "What are you hoping to accomplish here? You are putting yourself at risk every time you're within arms reach of him."

Michelle rolled her eyes, shaking her head softly. "I'm putting myself at risk by existing." She said, still watching the window, looking for any signs of irritation from her father. He seemed to be okay for now. "As for why… I don't fucking know. I'm a masochist? I've been hurt enough by parental figures that I desperately crave more? You tell me, Sam. You're the shrink."

Loomis just sighed. "I'm only worried about you, I've seen too many people hurt by him before. You're aunt… she's never been the same."

Michelle decided to play nice for now, and let out a sigh. "I know. But I'm not Laurie… I'm… me. I don't know how to explain it, I'm here because I'm compelled to be. I just… need to."

Again, Loomis frowned, but didn't argue. He didn't have a choice, really. He just felt so much pain for this girl that had made herself wholly responsible for the single most dangerous man in the states, and he didn't think she fully understood what she was getting herself in to. "Just… be careful." Was all he could manage, and left the room, trailed by Sartain who'd learned that Michelle wasn't quite up for talking to him… ever.

She was left with David, the younger Loomis, who offered her a sad smile. "He means well, but his bedside manner… well he never really had one." He gestured to the door, leading her out into the hallway. "But… I understand." His voice was soft. "We all want something from our parents… even if they aren't willing to give it up."

Michelle could tell he was speaking from experience, He was Sam's son, but when they were in the same room together they were like strangers. Michelle didn't really feel sympathy, but there was no harm in playing nice, right? She could probably use this to her advantage somehow.

Or she could at least get laid.

"Hey," She said, as they reached the gate that would let her back out into the world. "Do you maybe wanna go get some pizza or something? I've been here for a couple weeks and still don't really know anyone. We can drink terrible American beer and talk about our terrible fathers."

David blushed, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. That wasn't what he was expecting. But… she was pretty. And British. And smart. It couldn't be that bad an idea, right?

(~~)

Three hours later David found himself in a hotel room in Chicago with Michelle half drunk and on top of him. How the hell she was still coherent with the amount of beer she drank was beyond him, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining…. Because she felt so fucking good.

 _ **I'm saving my smutty a-game for later. *Insert winking emoji here***_


	6. Hurt

_**Fun fact: I've been writing fanfictions since about 1999, when I was 11. In all of that time I've never successfully completed a multi-chapter story. So… that's a whopping 20 years of disappointing myself. I like to think that I've managed to learn how to pace better, and write better in general (I KNOW I can write better, at least. I can't even begin to describe how awful I used to be.) So, hopefully… with my grown up 31 year old lady determination I can get this done. I need to get this done. It's driving me nuts and butts.**_

 _ **Reviews are always appreciated, and encouraged. Y'all give me life.**_

 _ **Trigger Warnings: Drug and Alcohol Abuse, Attempted Suicide.**_

December 2001

Something was different now. If Michelle thought her father was cold at first he was downright frigid now. At least twice in the past month he'd refused to even see her, and when he did, he didn't even stare at her, he was staring at the wall behind her. Wasn't this situation supposed to be in reverse? The jilted child vehemently ignoring the desperate parent? It was starting to get to her. Anger and indifference she was ready for, at least it was something. Flat out rejection… wasn't something she'd prepared herself for at all. And every visit got a little harder to handle, and she was starting to break. Hell, today she'd smoked half her weight in pot before she even got there. Sadly that was only enough to get her calm. Still, as he sat there with his face turned from her she didn't feel calm. Anger, desperation and depression were warring inside of her, and though she was trying to squash it all down and not let it show, she knew she was failing miserably. She just let out a sigh, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her forehead on them.

Michael, for his part, was staring off to avoid looking at her. Yes, he was ignoring her because she made him feel. The day that she had kissed him before she left he'd felt his chest hurt. He was pretty used to pain, he lived his life in it after all of the injuries he'd suffered that night, but this was a different kind of pain. This was a kind of pain that made him sad, and Michael Myers just simply didn't do sad. He didn't do anything that affected him in anyway. She, the girl, affected him. And since he wasn't ready to kill her yet, he decided he would just ignore the problem and fade off into his own mind. Maybe he could get her to give up whatever it was she was doing, get her to leave him alone until he was ready to deal with her. If the distressed look on her face was anything to go by, it was working.

Michelle had her eyes squeezed shut tight, feeling the pressure growing behind them. Her head hurt but it was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. Why did she even care so much? Two months ago she had no idea this was even a situation, and now it was all she thought about. Two months ago Michael Myers was just the Boogeyman that she admired, now he was her father and her irrational mind expected things that just weren't possible. And she was letting it hurt her. She'd never been very good at handling her emotions, and now that inexperience was coming back to bite her right in the ass. Maybe she'd used up all of her luck on getting away with murder, and now she'd spend the rest of her… oh 11 months of life dying inside because the only person in the entire world she'd come to care about literally only wanted one thing from her. Her fucking demise.

Of fucking course she cared about him, because even the most fucked up and damaged little girl still loves her daddy. And that's what she was. A walking disaster desperate for some kind of parental approval… that would never come.

She heard herself sob before she felt it, and her jeans were getting wet. She needed to leave. She needed to leave right the fuck now.

Michael tuned back in when she made a noise. It wasn't the kind of crying he was used to. This was pained, not scared, and again it made him hurt. Why… why did it make him hurt? He didn't move when she stood up, but he could smell the salt in the air. That hurt too. His hands balled into fists in his lap.

"I can't bloody do this…" She said, grabbing her bag off of the floor. He still wasn't looking at her, and he never would. "Are ya fuckin happy? You win. I'm leaving." She growled out as she brushed passed the table, at least she didn't touch him this time.

Normally the guards had to open the doors, but she didn't wait, she shoved it open and started making her way down the hallway. Hurried footsteps were following her, highly polished hard soled oxfords on the dirty tiled floor. She could smell David, and didn't want to deal with him right now.

"Michelle!" He said, reaching out and grabbing her shoulder.

"Not right now, David. Please." She said, knowing her face was a complete mess. After their little beer induced tryst, they had continued seeing one another. Dinner dates here and there, her sleeping at his apartment, or him crashing in the hotel with her. He'd been hinting the past couple weeks that she should just come stay with him until the house was ready, and she'd ignored it. The poor fool was far more invested in whatever they had going than she was.

"At least let me drive you back to the hotel." He said, putting his arm around her shoulder and pulling her to him. "You can't leave like this."

The last thing she wanted right now was to be held, or spoken to like a child. Fortunately for him, her sadness was outweighing her ability to be angry, and she just shook her head. "No, please I just… wanna be alone. Please?"

David frowned, they had made plans that night, like they made plans every Wednesday when she came to the hospital. But it wasn't exactly fair to expect it, was it? Not tonight… he could see her later… he supposed. So, like a good boyfriend, David nodded. "Alright… just… please call me when you get back to the hotel. Let me know you're alright."

Michelle could only nod in response, as she stepped away from him. "Yeah... "

And then she was gone. It was a repeat performance of the first time, no idea how she made it back to the hotel, or how she got into her room, or where the bottle in her hand had come from. All she was aware of was the feeling of her heart ripping itself into pieces.

For fucks sake she was stupid, wasn't she? Letting herself get wrapped up in some stupid fantasy that Michael fucking Myers was going to love her, that they were going to become what… murder buddies? The father/daughter Midwest Slasher team?

"You're nothin', love…" She mumbled to herself, after swallowing a herculean gulp of vodka. "Little fuckin' fool… just like mummy always said…" With a sigh and a sob, she laid back in the water. Her eyes fell on her discarded jeans, and the switchblade that was poking out of them.

Now there was an idea, wannit? Go out on her own terms, and end her self imposed emotional nightmare. Smiling sadly, she dropped the bottle into the water, letting the alcohol leak out, making her skin tingle. Lazily, drunkenly, she groped around on the floor, until she managed to grab her pants, yanking them into the water with her. Who cared if they were ruined, right? Not like she would be needing them in a few minutes.

This was probably the moment for reflection, on the terrible things that had lead her to this point. But for the first time in months, Michelle found her mind blissfully blank. There wouldn't be any more pain now, nothing to worry or care about. Just the sweet embrace of the reaper, and her descent into hell.

Yes. God yes.

The blade was sharp and well cared for, it made a whisper through the air as it flicked open. And sliced through her skin like butter. Wrist to elbow, elbow to wrist. The only way to do it right. Her sad smile faded into crying and giggles as she watched the red drip into the water, and spread out in spidery liquid tendrils. Blood in water was beautiful… the only thing prettier was blood on snow… like how her arm looked. With a shuddering breath, she lifted her arm, letting the crimson fluid drip onto her breasts.

Damn… it was getting cold…

(~~)

David Loomis had torn out of the physicians parking lot of Smith's Grove like a bat out of hell with it's ass on fire. Michelle had left two hours ago, and never called. He was scared shitless. For God's sake he loved the woman, and he cursed himself the entire drive that he didn't take her back. Take her to his place where he could have watched her. He prayed to whatever God would listen that she was okay and has just forgotten. Shit happened, right? But there was something in his gut telling him that she wasn't okay. The woman was bloody unflappable, so seeing her the way she was should have been a good fucking indication. Dammit, David… he growled at herself, whipping into a parking spot at the Waldorf-Astoria Chicago. He all but ran to the sixth-floor, room thirteen, and knocked hard. He was out of breath, his legs hurt and his lungs were burning. It was quiet inside, and another wave of panic washed over him. She always had some unreasonably loud music playing. But no, it was silent.

Shaking hands fished out his wallet, where he'd stored the spare keycard she'd given him. He cursed at the door, as it took three tries to get it open. The room though, was trashed. Bottles lay broken, the bed dishevelled as ever. Her makeup, clothes and shoes tossed around haphazardly with with far less care than she usually took. Michelle loved her wardrobe…

The light in the bathroom was on, and he suppressed a shiver as he made his way towards it. "Michelle?" He called, not wanting to scare her. Nothing. His heart hammered in his chest as he stepped into the large lavatory.

"Michelle!" He yelled, in shock. There she was, water so dark red it looked like it was just blood. Her arm was raised over her, and she was staring at it.

"Why won't I die?" She whispered, not looking away from the gaping wound that had all but stopped bleeding. David didn't believe it was possible for her to be any more pale than she was, but there… right in front of him. Whiter than a sheet of paper.

David dove to her, grabbing the knife and throwing the offening thing across the room like it had burned him. "M-Michelle… whh-why…" He said, looking at her. She was breathing, and awake, and how that was even possible he didn't know. His panicked mind fought with his logical mind as he reached into the bathtub and pulled the plug, sliding his arms under her and hauling her out. She weighed nothing it seemed. Or his adrenaline was running high. "Why did you do this…" He asked, his voiced pained. She didn't respond.

Hospital, he needed to… get her to… the hospital. Michelle shifted in his arms, and he froze. How the fuck was she still alive?! His mind was screaming as he wrapped her in a blanket, still holding her like a child.

(~~)

It had taken David less than ten minutes, driving like an utter mad man. He felt like a mad man too, carrying his cold and half dead girlfriend into the hospital in a dirty, half bloody hotel blanket. The nurses had taken her away from him and left him in the waiting room where he was attempting to answer questions about her, and quickly realizing he didn't know much about the woman he'd been with for the past month and a half.

After an hour there, staring at the wall and contemplating calling his father, the doctor came out looking rather grim. He calmly explained that despite how long she'd managed to hold out, they'd lost her. That was when, devastated, David witnessed the same earth shattering moment that his father did twenty-three years ago.

When David, shaking and on the verge of tears, stepped into the room, and looked over her white and blue form. He felt his heart break, but the moment he'd pressed a kiss to her freezing forehead, her black eyes snapped open.

What followed was a string of very confused doctors. It seemed like she'd only had blood drawn, as they ran tests and scans trying to figure out how they'd fucked up so badly. She was alive, though, somehow. And honestly that was all David cared about.

They were then faced with the fact that she had attempted suicide, and legally could not be released back out into the world until she was cleared by a psychiatrist. David pulled every string he could to get her transferred to the short term inpatient care at Smith's Grove. It would expose their relationship, but it was a risk he was willing to take. At least this way, he could keep an eye on her, even if he couldn't be right there.

And that was how Michelle found herself sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair, staring around a circle of other nut jobs, locked up there for various reasons. A few suicide attempts, some people just looking for attention, and maybe a couple legitimate crazies. The ugly blue pajamas she'd been forced into itched her skin, and didn't fit… she was swimming in them. And she wasn't allowed to have a bra. Her piercings were in a small bag in David's desk, and her hair felt greasy since the shampoo they provided was hardly enough to get through her thick mane. In essence, she was pissed off. Pissed because she was still alive, and now she was stuck here. Dirty and tired. Yeah, David meant well… but this was a bit much.

"Michelle, why don't you introduce yourself?" The doctor leading their merry band said, turning to look at her.

"Why? You just told everyone my name."

The doctor frowned. "Well what's your last name? Why are you here?"

"Myers. And I'm here because my last name is Myers."

She didn't notice when another girl in the group seemed to freeze, just staring at her with wide eyes. "From what I understand, you're related to another patient in this facility, correct?"

"Yeah, guess which one." She replied, tilting her head to the side. "He's my father."

"Can I be excused, Doctor Hausen?" The other woman spoke, seeming to jump from her chair and stare at Michelle with wide eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry Lindsey, I forgot you were here. Of course." The doctor said, and Lindsey all but ran from the room. Michelle raised an eyebrow.

"Don't use me as some sort of therapy tool, Doc." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You wanna scare the life out of the poor woman stick her in a room with him… don't drag me into this."

Michelle knew that Lindsey Wallace was a patient there as well, David had told her a few weeks back when the girl had been brought in after having robbed a convenience store and then attempted suicide via train tracks in a nearby town.

That night Lindsey Wallace attempted to escape, which lead to the perfect opportunity for Michael to do the same. But not from the hospital, no,just from the high security wing, Apparently, several of the nurses assumed he was deaf along with stupid, he had heard one of them mention her passcode to another… it had been easy enough to lift her badge.

The girl had apparently attempted suicide, and failed miserably, The younger Loomis pulled some strings to get her placed in Smith's Grove. Michael could _feel_ her here. Almost as if she were standing right next to him, and it was irritating. He still couldn't kill her, but he wanted to see her. He couldn't even explain to himself why, but he needed to. Her departure two days ago had been irritating him, bothering him. Michael Myers wasn't usually one to be irrational, but he staunchly refused to believe that thing girl was working her way under her skin, and not in the way that people usually do. He almost… cared about her? Was that the emotion? He had no concept of what it was really. As much as he hated her and wanted her to go away… he also found himself somewhat protective of her. Last week he'd learned that she was sleeping with David Loomis, and had made his dislike of that situation rather known… as best he could.

After the guards had taken off to go capture the errant prisoner, Michael had no problem jimmying his door open and making his way through the halls. He didn't actually know the hospital quite as well as one would expect, but something was guiding him through. Down three flights of stairs, left, left, and a right to the end of the hall. On this floor only the doors in and out were locked, not the patient rooms themselves, it was easy just to push and watch the door swing open.

Michelle was sitting on her barred window sill. She'd managed to get the old thing to creak open without breaking it, but she doubted she'd get it closed again. It was dark outside, but she could see the guards and orderlies in their white garb searching around with flashlights for the missing patient. She had managed to jack a pack of cigarettes from one of the guards who'd gotten a little too handsy with her, she broke is nose. It was an eventful evening.

So with a cigarette dangling from her lips she sat in her dark tower just watching their failed attempts to find the missing girl, who Michelle knew for a fact had slipped out hours ago and was halfway to Pittsburg by this point. Still, it was more fun for her this way… the fucking idiots.

Ten minutes ago, however, something started prickling at the back of her skull. She had no idea what it was, just a feeling that something was happening. So when her door opened, she didn't even turn around. He walked heavy, so it wasn't hard to figure out.

"Ello, Daddy…" She mumbled, sticking her arm out the window to toss the fag, watching as it floated down to the snow a story below her, the little cherry blinking out halfway there. With a sigh, she turned around, squaring her shoulders. He was shrouded in the darkness of the room, all but his legs hidden from view. The room was small, barely six by six, with the window opposite the door, but if it were possible it felt so much smaller. "Something I can do for you?" Michelle knew her voice lacked the usual force she kept in it, the usual dominance and British authority. She was just tired. She hadn't been, before now… but now looking at him, she just wanted to crawl into her tiny cot and go to sleep.

Michael took several steps towards her, until she was trapped between the windows, and his body. True, he didn't frighten her anymore, but being this close to him after months of being separated by large tables was a little unnerving. More unnerving when he grabbed her wrist and turned it, looking at the red scar that now marred her white skin.

Michelle couldn't stop the shiver that tore through her as he dragged his calloused thumb along the length of the healed gash. It was such an uncharacteristically gentle moment that it caught her off guard. Leaving her breathless and confused. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw something that all but made her heart stop. Pain. Or something akin to it. She was, like everyone else, so used to seeing an utter lack of emotion on his face, in his eyes, that to see anything there was easily the most jarring thing she had ever experienced.

They stayed like that for several minutes, during which Michelle could hear her blood flowing, just from how silent it was. She couldn't understand what was going on, but there was something that seemed to have shifted between them. His standoffish nature gone at the sight of her in the same clothing as him. In the same place. She felt she might go mad if she tried to make sense of it. Not that she wasn't well on her way there to begin with.

After what felt like ages, he finally dropped her arm and stepped away from her. Not knowing what to say, or do, she just watched as he turned, intending to leave the room. That was, before he was taken down by a hefty dose of tranquilizer right to the chest. Someone had finally noticed he was missing.

"Are you alright, Michelle?" David said, entering the room as Michael was carted off.

Her only response was to break down crying.

 _ **Y'all, this was so fucking hard to write for so many reasons. Idk if I'm happy with it, but it is what it is. Be cool, and leave a review.**_


	7. HIS

_**Disclaimer is in the prologue. Despite all of my wishing, I still don't own shit.**_

 _ **So last chapter… uh… how about that. Before anyone jumps on my shit I have no intention of humanizing anyone too much. Things will be explained as we go along. So keep an open mind, or don't… I can't tell you what to do.**_

(~~)

Lindsay Wallace hadn't been recovered, not that it was a shock to anyone, she was good at getting away, just not so good at not getting caught to begin with. However, the chaos surrounding that had quickly been replaced when Michael's door had been found open. It was Sam Loomis who determined where he likely was, and the old man had been right. David Loomis had been terrified beyond all belief when he saw the tall, imposing form in Michelle's room, but she was safe. Upset, but safe.

She was currently sat in his office, with Sam and Doctor Wynn, who had blessedly delayed his retirement by a year due to recent developments. She had her legs curled up to her chest with a styrofoam cup full of tea clasped between her hands.

"Can I get something stronger…" She said, softly. David could only frown and shake his head.

"I'm sorry, love."

"What happened, Michelle?" Sam asked, turning in her direction. She didn't appear to be harmed, but she was undoubtedly upset and shaken. Michael hadn't caused an issue in the hospital since his return, hell… he barely moved. Tonight he probably could have walked out of the hospital before anyone noticed, but he didn't… he came straight to his daughter.

"Nothin'..." She said, staring into her teacup. To be honest, she had no idea what had happened. Laughable as it was, her father had seemed concerned for her. Like what she'd done had upset him. "He was just… there. He grabbed my arm and…" She ran her thumb over the scar, mimicking what he'd done. She decided it didn't feel quite as nice as his hand had.

Sam's brow drew together in confusion. Of all of the things that could have happened, her not being harmed was the last thing on his list. Michael behaved drastically differently, as he behaved period. For the most part, Michael was immobile, he only stood or sat and stared out of windows or at walls. For the first few weeks she'd held his attention, and then it shifted to him essentially ignoring her. Now, him ignoring people wasn't at all unheard of, what was, was how he pointedly didn't look at her. His head would be turned and he would stare off into the void around them. And now this… he went out of his way to go to her. It would have been faster and easier to just leave the hospital all together, but he went clear to the other wing to what...comfort her? After thirty-seven years of having Michael under his own care, Sam Loomis assumed that he knew all there was to know… and now he's doubting if he knew anything at all. It was unnerving.

"He could have killed you…" David remarked, reaching out to grasp Michelle's arm.

"But he didn't…" She said, looking at Wynn, who had been silent thus far. "He could have done anything, but he didn't. He won't… not yet at least. But… think of everything that's happened so far. He communicates with me… at least in some way. Can you imagine what he would be like unobserved?"

Sam didn't like where this was going, "That isn't an option."

"I'm not saying leave me alone, locked in a room with him. Just without the cameras and microphones."

"Miss Myers...:"

"A secured room then! Give me a panic button and have guards outside the door! Whatever makes you feel better about it… but I will formally petition and get my lawyer involved if I have to."

Michelle lacked the subtlety and humbleness of most of her countrymen. She had absolutely no issue pulling out her power and waving it in everyone's face when it meant getting her way. In an instant she wasn't upset and curled in on herself. She sat up straight, drawing in as much authority as she could in her blue pajamas and greasy hair, nose tilted up and staring down the two older men in a way that said she absolutely would not back down. Sam just sighed, and nodded at Wynn.

"I'll have a room prepared then…" Wynn said, turning to leave the room, and Michelle smirked. It was always satisfying to know she had all of these men wrapped right around her finger. Maybe David a little more than the others, but still…

The next morning Michelle was sitting in an unused patient room. There was a panic button in her hand, and she was chewing on her bottom lip, just waiting. This had seemed like an great idea yesterday, but now she was realizing just how bad this could go. She didn't think it would, but Michael Myers was far from predictable. Did it matter though? If she died today or Halloween? If her failed attempt on her own life had done anything it only made her more obsessed with her father.

After a solid ten minutes of waiting, he was wheeled in, sagging some in his chair, but not chained down for once.

"We'll be right outside the door, Miss." The guard said, giving her a weary look that said he thought she was just as insane as everyone else did. Still, they weren't in a position to deny her request. Her only response was to nod, and wait for them to leave.

She hadn't really thought of what she was going to do in this situation, she was just far too excited at the prospect of having him alone for the first time. Even if he was somewhat out of it.

Michael felt.. Off. The dose they had given him would take down most full grown men… but for him it only made him slow and sluggish. He slowly raised his head to look at her, blinking slowly. He didn't like her without all of that stuff in her face. Normally those things annoyed him, but he'd come to associate it so much with her that seeing her without it was uncomfortable. He hated these drugs… they made him feel stupid, especially when he reached out and poked the small hole just under her lip.

Michelle had to fight a laugh, "I couldn't keep them in here." She said simply. It would be a lie to say she didn't find this extremely amusing, usually she was the one somewhat inebriated when they were together, it was an amusing experience to be on the opposite side of things. Except when his hand fell onto her wrist, turning it over to see the scar again. All she could do was sigh and let him, but then he tapped his finger on the scar twice.

 _No._

She frowned, "What do you mean no?"

Again, he rubbed his thumb over the scar, and tapped twice.

"I… I'm not going to do it again…" She said, and moved to pull her arm away, but he'd already wrapped his fingers around it.

Michael began breathing hard, harder than usual, his mouth slightly open. Michelle froze, her eyes somewhat wide as she looked at him, afraid that they might have overdosed him. But then, she noticed something… his throat seemed to be moving some, almost like he was trying to get some sound to come out, she leaned closer. "Daddy…?"

"Nnnnnn," The noise came from his throat, rough and sandpapery, she held her breath. "Nnnnnn...oh…. Gain…"

Michelle felt her heart stop. He… he just. Holy shit. She felt tears rising to her eyes. "No daddy… not again." She nodded, feeling the overwhelming desire to crawl into his lap and cry.

"No… again…" He repeated, slightly clearer this time, but still not much else but a harsh whisper.

That was it, she was crying. Tears leaking down from her eyes unchecked. She couldn't believe it… he spoke. Somewhat, but still it was more than anyone had gotten in almost forty years. She went to raise her hand to wipe them away, but his hand was suddenly on her face, thumb sweeping across her cheek roughly. His jagged nail caught her skin, leaving a welt in its wake, but she honestly didn't even feel it, as overwhelmed with emotions as she was.

"Mmm… shell…" Her eyes snapped to his, breath quickened some.

"Daddy."

"Mmm...eh...shell…" That was it, she lost any and all logical thoughts, her arms went round his shoulders and she pulled herself as close to him as she could in her position. Michelle… metal Queen of London, was happier than she had ever been in her life. Even after she murdered the slugs.

Michael grunted when she hugged him, no one had done that since her mother. He had no idea what to do in this situation, other than lay one of his hands on her side. It was strange, being in this position, and not feeling the need to crush her spine or break her neck. He didn't know how to feel about the hug, but it didn't make him want to kill her.

Honestly, he didn't understand anything about this… what he felt or why he felt it towards her. Last night something had flipped, knowing what she tried to do and why she tried to do it was the greatest pain that he had ever felt, and he was determined that he would walk into that room and kill her right out. He didn't care about the rules… he just wanted her dead. But then he'd seen her, standing there pale, and tired, and not looking anything like herself, he realized that he couldn't. Just as there was something that drove him to kill, there was something driving him to let her live. Somehow, she had tapped into that tiny part of him that might still be something resembling human. She was his child. HIS.

As the thought crossed his mind, his grip on her sides tightened, but she didn't seem affected. If anything she only hugged onto him tighter.

An hour had passed when the two guards reentered the room, both holding their tranquilizer guns. Neither was prepared for what they saw however. Michael sitting in his chair with Michelle curled up in his lap, fast asleep. At least they hoped she was… yes she just moved.

Michael immediately knew they were entering the room, and instinctively tightened his arms around her form. Almost daring them to try to take her from him.

Fortunately for the guards, however, his tension stirred her awake. It took several moments for her to register what was happening. When she saw the guards, she sighed. "Daddy." She said, but he was still just staring them down. "Daddy." Repeated, more firmly, enough to at least draw his eyes. "It's okay." She said, reaching up to run her fingers down his face. Michelle _felt_ a noise rumble in his chest, but it never made it past that. After several, long moment of silent coaxing, she managed to extract herself from his lap and stand up. "I'll see you again before they let me out." She whispered her promise, pressing a kiss to his forehead before turning to leave the room.

The guards were ready to shoot when she stepped away, but Michael just sat docile, watching as she made her way into the hallway, when David and Sam Loomis were waiting for her. David looking utterly dumbfounded, and Sam confused. They'd been there from the moment the guards opened the door and watched the whole exchange, neither knew how to process that. '

 _ **Short but sweet. Please be cool and review, even if you just wanna tell me to fuck off already.**_


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